They walk in light too bright to bear,
With silver tongues and hollow stares.
Their names are whispered, etched in stone,
A prayer on lips, a sacred tone.
We lift them high on altars cold,
Adorned with myths and tales retold.
Their faces framed in gold and flame,
As if their flaws have no true name.
The crowd bends low, with heads bowed deep,
While shadows gather where they sleep.
The truth, a ghost they dare not see,
Lost in the glare of reverie.
Yet far beneath this gleaming mask,
Lie wounds unhealed, too deep to ask.
For every crown and robe they wear,
Hides the cracks we will not share.
To worship those who claim the sky,
Is to forget how low they lie.
In silent halls, we carve their face,
And lose ourselves in their hollow grace.
The cost is more than we can know,
To trust in saints that never grow.
For when they fall, as idols do,
The weight is borne by me and you.
YOU ARE READING
Lurk's Compendium of Dark Poetry (LCDP)
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, the veil is torn away, revealing the undercurrents of darkness that run through the human experience. These poems are raw and relentless, exploring the spaces where light fails to reach, and the truths we fear most come...
